What It Was Like to Be on the Road with Janis Joplin

An exclusive excerpt from a new book by the rock icon's road manager

Few rock vocalists have been as influential as Janis Joplin. Her soulful, raspy wail moved mountains up until her untimely death at the age of 27 in 1970. In 1967, when she was still with Big Brother and the Holding Company, John Byrne Cook took over as Joplin's road manager and remained a presence in her life until the very end. Today, Cooke is releasing a book,On the Road with Janis Joplin, that chronicles his time with the singer, offering an insider's perspective of her meteoric rise and tragic fall. Below is an exclusive excerpt, which captures the bubbling excitement of a band on the precipice of stardom.

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On Monday, Janis and the boys and I fly to Los Angeles, where the vitality of springtime in California helps to dispel the pall. We have a gig in Anaheim, followed by a weekend at the Fillmore and Winterland for Bill Graham.

Almost losing my job back in January taught me a lesson. The band knows they need a businessman like Albert for a manager, but they don't want too much of a businessman for a road manager. Keeping some distance to establish my authority may have been necessary at the outset, but I can't be so remote that they feel I'm not one of them. They want to feel that I belong. They want to know that I like them.

I do like them. I've been showing it more, hanging out more, feeling more like one of the gang, but I have no indication of how the band feels about me until we're cruising down the Santa Anna Freeway to Anaheim, riding the high of a beautiful spring day, rapping and laughing about who knows what, and out of the blue Dave Getz says, "And yes, John, we love you."

I say "I love you too," and I mean it. Janis and each of the boys have endeared themselves to me in their own ways. Privately, I've decided that I will stay on until the job stops being fun, or until my own work—whatever it may be—makes itself known to me and requires my full attention. And since I'll be staying—

"By the way," I say, but Peter Albin is ahead of me.

"You want a raise."

"Now that you mention it." We all laugh.

"We wander the planet looking for members of our tribe. Once in a while, if we're lucky, we find them."

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I get a fifty-dollar raise on the spot. Two hundred bucks a week. My starting salary was set by Albert when he hired me. Getting a raise from the band, unanimously approved, solidifies the working relationship, but the validation means more than the money. We wander the planet looking for members of our tribe. Once in a while, if we're lucky, we find them.

On Sunday, April 21, the New York Times publishes an article by the jazz critic Nat Hentoff that's based on an interview he did with Janis while we were in New York. "Janis Joplin has exploded the increasingly mandarin categories of rock music by being so intensely, so joyfully herself," Hentoff writes. He mentions Big Brother and the Holding Company only in passing, and quotes Janis extensively. Her answers touch on the recurrent themes she emphasizes when trying to give an accounting of herself to the world at large. "I was treated very badly in Texas," she says. "They don't treat beatniks too good in Texas." Of performing, she says, "when everything is together—the band, me, the audience, it's boss! It's just like magic. I don't think I could ever feel that way about a man."

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When Hentoff asks if she considers herself a jazz singer, Janis's answer demonstrates the articulate precision she can bring to bear on subjects that matter to her: "No, I don't feel quite free enough with my phrasing to say I'm a jazz singer. I sing with a more demanding beat, a steady rather than a lilting beat. I don't riff over the band; I try to punctuate the rhythm with my voice."

For the rest of the spring and into the summer we're based at home in San Francisco. In our first weeks back in California we play Chico and Fresno, Santa Barbara and San Bernadino. We're flying more often and driving less. The gigs are farther afield. The venues and the money are bigger than they were last winter.

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We are veterans of the road now, and the routine of planes and rental cars, motels and gigs is less stressful in the sunshine of the Golden State. Janis and the boys are happy to be on their home ground. In retrospect, this is our most peaceful period. Despite the busy schedule, it's an idyll, but it's tempered by the urgent need to finish the album for Columbia.

The advance orders for the record are huge. The sales reps are clamoring for it. Everyone from Clive Davis on down is frustrated by the slow progress and John Simon is feeling the pressure. He takes another stab at live recording, this time in Winterland, days after we return from New York. The results are better than the Grande Ballroom, but the evening doesn't yield any tracks deemed adequate.

"When it comes time for her to sing, she steps up the microphone and gives it everything she's got. Her ability to summon a definitive vocal rarely fails her."

In late May, we go into Columbia's Hollywood studio to finish the album. The tensions between John Simon and the band, which Pennebaker's camera recorded in the New York sessions, are more apparent than ever. Making a record is hard work, but it's also supposed to be fun. In these sessions, fun is held effectively at bay. The tension between feeling good about their music onstage and feeling bad about it in the studio wears on the band. The difficulties with Simon affect David and Peter the most, while Sam and James medicate themselves to hold the aggravation at bay.

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Janis handles it best. She distances herself from Simon, but when it comes time for her to sing, she steps up the microphone and gives it everything she's got. Her ability to summon a definitive vocal rarely fails her. She lays down a couple of takes and all you have to do is choose between them, weighing the small variations.

To provide the band with some comfort during our extended stay in Hollywood, I have found lodgings more upscale than the Hollywood Sunset Motel. Elektra Records has built a west coast studio on La Cienega Boulevard, and Paul Rothchild is spending a lot of time in Los Angeles. He has found lodging at the Hollywood Landmark Hotel, on Franklin Avenue near Highland, where the plain of the Los Angeles basin rises into the foothills. It's on the edge of a residential neighborhood, above the garish, commercial strips of Sunset and Hollywood boulevards, where the tourists search in vain for movie stars and the hookers troll for tourists.

Calling the Landmark a hotel is stretching it. From the street, it looks like any other two-story stucco motel, but the looks are deceiving. Walk through the lobby, past the registration desk and through a set of glass doors to the large courtyard, and you see that the arms of the establishment ramble up the hillside, enclosing a pool and a sauna and enough terrace to accommodate a couple of rock-and-roll bands. There are palm trees and other plantings. The units that overlook the courtyard are suites, with livingrooms and kitchenettes and balconies. The upstairs suites are spacious and airy, with high ceilings. Only the two-story structure that fronts on Franklin Avenue has ordinary single rooms off a central hallway, and even these have kitchenettes.

"Janis was as together in the studio as anyone I have ever worked with, interested in everything and totally committed." —Elliot Mazer, co-producer, Cheap Thrills

Bob Neuwirth has a poolside suite next to Paul's. Before Paul and Bobby found the Landmark, it hosted the occasional jazz band. By the time Big Brother and I check in, it is in the process of becoming a preferred hostelry on the rock-and-roll road. Also in residence at this time is Gary Goodrow, of the Committee, which has opened a second company in a theater on Sunset Strip.

With a reference from Paul to Jack Hagy, the manager, I negotiate us a weekly rate so good that Janis and the boys raise only token objections. Hey, with kitchenettes we can save money on meals, I point out, and this helps to convince them. They've been working hard and they feel that they owe themselves a reward.

Janis opts for a single room in the front building. She says the courtyard suites are too big for her to knock around in all by herself. The boys like the suites and they each have one to themselves. The days of doubling up to save money are history.